a 2-page scholastic essay on the physical and mental processes associated with needing to take a huge shit in public
Nation, Today I Shit.
The act of defecation is among the most primal, yet finest simple pleasures a man can experience. I say man, because as you know, women don’t poop.
However, as you’re about to be reminded, sometimes it can all go wrong.
It all begins in a similar fashion. You’re out somewhere well away from your subconsciously established turd-emission comfort zone, when all of a sudden, It happens.
Yes, It, with a capitalized “I”, a proper noun. This event commands respect. You all know what I mean. You feel like the planets are oddly aligned. Your body equilibrium shifts. Your stomach tightens.
You’re standing there in a daze trying to sort yourself out – Unannounced to you, there is a raging whirlwind of fecal fury hurtling towards your colon in a stormsurge of unsurpassed force and wetness. You have five minutes to get to a toilet. Barring that, a quiet corner in which to curl up and get buried in a shallow grave of your own personal butt soil.
The next step is a cruel one – simply known as The Realization.
You all know the feeling. Your hands drop to your sides. Your eyes widen and begin to slightly tear up. Your jaw hangs open, completely uncontrolled. You are a rigid being, completely unaware of his surroundings. The world ceases to exist. All senses are turned inward. Within one’s skull, the brain is completely dedicated to your cause in purely self-preservative instinct. Suddenly you accrue nearly savant-like mental powers. Every available toilet you’ve ever encountered within a reachable radius comes miraculously back into your memory banks. Your eyes may even roll into your head as routes and obstacles are calculated into what may be the most immaculate act of human efficiency possible. A light nearly begins glowing around you. It’s time
As you snap back into consciousness, you realize that time is precious. The consequences of the situation are verified by your heightened state of awareness, and immediately your adrenal gland contracts, flushing every drop of bodily adrenaline into your blood stream. Your pupils constrict, your muscles surge with energy – with purpose. Your mind functions with absolute clarity. However, shit-brown grains of sand sift steadily through an hourglass of fecal fate, almost mocking the gravitational progression of the demon within you. It’s now or never.
Whatever social situation you’re in, no matter how intricate or deeply woven, it completely gets pushed aside with a series of utterances that would make Freud blush. On a date? You just found out your mother got cancer. Business meeting? Previously unknown to your coworkers, you’re diabetic and need to get to your insulin immediately. Your subconscious observes the nuances of surrounding people’s personalities, stature, and body language to fabricate the perfect verbal escape message. You’re free. Go.
As soon as you clear your associate’s line of sight, your body’s motion towards your goal is now an unstoppable force.
This phase is known as The Passage.
You move with the steadiness of a boulder rolling down a mountain, with the force of an avalanche, the swiftness of a hawk. You could tear a door off its hinges if need be. Every facet of your body is making this deliverance possible. Specific pheromones coupled with your body language scream, “It’s happening”. Some passers-by move out of your way subconsciously. Some may realize exactly what is unfolding before their eyes, thanking the heavens for not sharing your fate. You part the crowd of a busy sidewalk like moses parted the red sea. Traffic lights somehow pattern up to provide an uninterrupted passage. The forces of the universe conspire with you. As you approach your destination, a small glimmer of hope shines within you. Maybe you’ll make it. Maybe you’ll reach salvation.
Salvation, of course, is the most treacherous part of this hellish journey.
As you park your car out front, or hurtle leaping and bounding towards your doorway from afar, your goal is in direct sight. This is very dangerous – the hope provided by glimpsing a visual of your terminus is a double-edged sword. At the same time, your digestive tract breathes a sigh of relief. The possibility of violently sharting here are at their highest. As your trembling, sweaty hands fumble with your keys to gain entry to your house, your ass cheeks clench in a last stand that would make the deceased of the Alamo proud. Never before has the distance from your front door to the toilet been so far. Bursting forth like a charging rhino, you haphazardly hurtle through your living space, shedding bags, clothing and underwear as you go.
Up to the very last second, your brain is racing to maintain control. The docking of your asscheeks against porcelain needs to be a precise as a nighttime landing on an aircraft carrier, for surely your ass has already erupted. If you can plant upon the rim without splatterpainting it with shit, You Have Arrived, and everything is right again. You can start feeling guilty about all those promises to god you were making along the journey, as a jetstream of shit erupts from your violently fluttering asshole. The stench would otherwise be overwhelming, but right now, every pleasure receptor in your body is firing at maximum. This feeling of absolute rectal bliss is rarely equaled by worldly pleasures, but it has come at a price. It’s likely you will spend hours or days undoing the various forms of damage along your path, whether it be personal relationships, or physical destruction. But you’re safe. Until next time.
The act of defecation is among the most primal, yet finest simple pleasures a man can experience. I say man, because as you know, women don’t poop.
However, as you’re about to be reminded, sometimes it can all go wrong.
It all begins in a similar fashion. You’re out somewhere well away from your subconsciously established turd-emission comfort zone, when all of a sudden, It happens.
Yes, It, with a capitalized “I”, a proper noun. This event commands respect. You all know what I mean. You feel like the planets are oddly aligned. Your body equilibrium shifts. Your stomach tightens.
You’re standing there in a daze trying to sort yourself out – Unannounced to you, there is a raging whirlwind of fecal fury hurtling towards your colon in a stormsurge of unsurpassed force and wetness. You have five minutes to get to a toilet. Barring that, a quiet corner in which to curl up and get buried in a shallow grave of your own personal butt soil.
The next step is a cruel one – simply known as The Realization.
You all know the feeling. Your hands drop to your sides. Your eyes widen and begin to slightly tear up. Your jaw hangs open, completely uncontrolled. You are a rigid being, completely unaware of his surroundings. The world ceases to exist. All senses are turned inward. Within one’s skull, the brain is completely dedicated to your cause in purely self-preservative instinct. Suddenly you accrue nearly savant-like mental powers. Every available toilet you’ve ever encountered within a reachable radius comes miraculously back into your memory banks. Your eyes may even roll into your head as routes and obstacles are calculated into what may be the most immaculate act of human efficiency possible. A light nearly begins glowing around you. It’s time
As you snap back into consciousness, you realize that time is precious. The consequences of the situation are verified by your heightened state of awareness, and immediately your adrenal gland contracts, flushing every drop of bodily adrenaline into your blood stream. Your pupils constrict, your muscles surge with energy – with purpose. Your mind functions with absolute clarity. However, shit-brown grains of sand sift steadily through an hourglass of fecal fate, almost mocking the gravitational progression of the demon within you. It’s now or never.
Whatever social situation you’re in, no matter how intricate or deeply woven, it completely gets pushed aside with a series of utterances that would make Freud blush. On a date? You just found out your mother got cancer. Business meeting? Previously unknown to your coworkers, you’re diabetic and need to get to your insulin immediately. Your subconscious observes the nuances of surrounding people’s personalities, stature, and body language to fabricate the perfect verbal escape message. You’re free. Go.
As soon as you clear your associate’s line of sight, your body’s motion towards your goal is now an unstoppable force.
This phase is known as The Passage.
You move with the steadiness of a boulder rolling down a mountain, with the force of an avalanche, the swiftness of a hawk. You could tear a door off its hinges if need be. Every facet of your body is making this deliverance possible. Specific pheromones coupled with your body language scream, “It’s happening”. Some passers-by move out of your way subconsciously. Some may realize exactly what is unfolding before their eyes, thanking the heavens for not sharing your fate. You part the crowd of a busy sidewalk like moses parted the red sea. Traffic lights somehow pattern up to provide an uninterrupted passage. The forces of the universe conspire with you. As you approach your destination, a small glimmer of hope shines within you. Maybe you’ll make it. Maybe you’ll reach salvation.
Salvation, of course, is the most treacherous part of this hellish journey.
As you park your car out front, or hurtle leaping and bounding towards your doorway from afar, your goal is in direct sight. This is very dangerous – the hope provided by glimpsing a visual of your terminus is a double-edged sword. At the same time, your digestive tract breathes a sigh of relief. The possibility of violently sharting here are at their highest. As your trembling, sweaty hands fumble with your keys to gain entry to your house, your ass cheeks clench in a last stand that would make the deceased of the Alamo proud. Never before has the distance from your front door to the toilet been so far. Bursting forth like a charging rhino, you haphazardly hurtle through your living space, shedding bags, clothing and underwear as you go.
Up to the very last second, your brain is racing to maintain control. The docking of your asscheeks against porcelain needs to be a precise as a nighttime landing on an aircraft carrier, for surely your ass has already erupted. If you can plant upon the rim without splatterpainting it with shit, You Have Arrived, and everything is right again. You can start feeling guilty about all those promises to god you were making along the journey, as a jetstream of shit erupts from your violently fluttering asshole. The stench would otherwise be overwhelming, but right now, every pleasure receptor in your body is firing at maximum. This feeling of absolute rectal bliss is rarely equaled by worldly pleasures, but it has come at a price. It’s likely you will spend hours or days undoing the various forms of damage along your path, whether it be personal relationships, or physical destruction. But you’re safe. Until next time.
Labels: urge to shit
posted by Cliff at
3:05 PM
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